Experimental
by BlueNeutrino
Summary: Adam Jensen's name is on a list of the dead, and in a covert facility somewhere, Vadim Orlov gets his hands on a shiny new toy.
1. Resurrection

**A/N: For dinkyicarus, who planted the thought of some very twisted Jensen/Orlov in my head. I recommend reading the Black Light novel (or its page on the DX wiki) before proceeding to chapter two.**

Even in soft soled shoes, Orlov's footsteps sound unnaturally loud on the vinyl floors of the facility. They set a brisk pace for the lab, fingertips touch a scanner, and hydraulic doors slide open with a hiss to reveal a stark space of glarings lights and shining chrome. In the center of the white room, technicians huddle around a specimen on an operating table, readying tools and instruments for the doctor's arrival.

"You're sure this is the one?" Orlov demands, striding forward so that they clear a path and he sees the sheet tugged back to reveal a pale, colourless face atop the table. "Patient X?"

"Cross referenced the aug serial numbers with records from Sarif," the head tech confirms. "This is him."

"Hm." Orlov nods in approval, expression turning to a frown as he notices the holes in the cadaver's temples. Lack of circulation has left little blood, most of it pooling lower down, but he notices the the perfectly round perforations in the skin. "There should be eye shields here."

"Damaged," the tech says succinctly. "Unsalvageable. We removed them, but we have the parts for reference, if you need it." He gestures to a dish on a nearby table where the broken frames and shattered lenses that were once Adam Jensen's mirror shades lie in pieces.

"Easily replaced," Orlov says casually. "I'll get a new model fitted once he's up and running. Any signs of life?"

"Heart's stopped. Nervous system's nearly completely shut down, but a deep brain scan showed some activity in the hypothalamus. We kept him cold. Didn't want to reverse any of the cryogenic effects from the water."

Orlov hums again. He reaches out a hand to touch the cadaver's brow, skin still like ice from the Arctic chill, and firmly tugs open an eyelid.

"Eyes are artificial," the tech reports. "Even with his his neurons firing, you won't see a response."

"On the contrary." Orlov plucks a penlight from the breast pocket of his labcoat and shines it into the plastic eye. "Internal battery held its charge. Retinal camera is still working. You see it trying to focus?"

The tech looks, but only catches a glimpse before Orlov straightens up again and pulls the sheet lower to reveal the body's chest. He rests a clean-scrubbed fingertip on the rivet bolted through the center of the sternum, circles the surrounding skin in what's almost a caress, and then turns to a nearby table in search of a tool.

With the tech looking on, Orlov selects a stethoscope and rests it on the right side of the chest. He taps a finger sharply on a space between the ribs, then repeats the action on the left. "Lungs are full of water," he reports, tone impassive.

"He didn't have an aug to prevent drowning? Seems like an oversight."

"I think in fact he did." Orlov replaces the stethoscope with a handheld ultrasound, pressing tight again Patient X's throat. "There's a valve right here, I suspect designed to close off the airway when underwater. Oxygen reservoirs in the lungs will probably reach maximum capacity from a single breath in around five minutes, after which the valve will open to expel CO2. Allowing water in regulates the pressure. Most likely what prevented his chest from caving in."

"Shall we get a pump to clear that?"

"Not yet. I want to get a better look inside first, see how it all works. We'll put him on a bypass when I need him revived."

The scanner gets set back on the tray. Orlov replaces it with his hands, fingertips tracing the shapes of a support bar bolted to the ribcage, warmth unfelt on clammy skin. "The skeletal reinforcements ought to have preserved most of his internal augs. Didn't the scans show titanium in his skull?" He moves again, a thumb swiping over a jutting cheekbone before fingers roam through thick, salt-stiffened hair. "Brain is intact."

"No damage that we can see," the tech confirms. "Just needs rebooting."

"Well, let's not let that happen too soon, shall we?" Orlov turns to his array of tools, tugs on a pair of white nitrile gloves, and reaches for a scalpel. "You got those experimental augs ready for me?"

The first thing Orlov installs is a new circuit board to accommodate the augs he plans to add to the limbs. He goes through the anterior chest wall, dismantles the support structure until there's room for him to play around in the chest cavity. Still ballooned with ocean water, the organic parts of the lungs are abnormally hard when he examines them, studying the interface between polymer bronchi branching into organic air sacs. There's artificial oxygen reservoirs, as he'd predicted, hooked up to the rebreather valve that can recycle a single a breath of air for as long as reasonably possible. The time period would have long expired by the time Adam Jensen was plucked from the water.

"Bring the bypass over," Orlov orders, snapping his fingers while his other hand locates the emergency valves on the pulmonary veins to plug it into. "Blood's going to need a detox filter, too. Get some warm saline into the arterial ports, see if we can get it flowing again. I'll get this wired into to the biocell circuits."

The chief tech, dutifully holding the swollen tissues clear of the circuit board Orlov has resting on the rear chest wall, bites his lip behind his surgical mask. "Sir? He was down there a long time. Don't you think we should make sure we can revive him before we start the installation?"

"You see this?" Orlov retorts, running an admiring hand over the transparent outer shell of the augmented heart and then tapping the carbonate armour of the aorta. "What's that brand stamped right there? Sarif. This Sentinel system is top of the range. If we can't get him back with that, his implants aren't worth shit."

Plastic tubes are plugged into ports. Warm fluids begin to flow into a body that's known nothing but the cold for weeks, and the bypass machine softly hums.

"Alright, you can vacuum his lungs now," Orlov concedes, his attention now on the subject's energy converter mounted on the heart's sinoatrial node. He screws off the cap encasing the mechanism to reach the bundle of wiring underneath. "I need them out of the way. And get me a soldering iron. I'll mount this on his spine."

As the doctor works, with fluids circulating through the bypass the first hints of colour begin to return to the patient's skin. It's not a healthy hue, still too yellowish, the dormant Sentinel having allowed toxins to accumulate in the blood, but gradually improving as the external machinery flushes his system.

Orlov is fighting back a smile as he finishes mounting the insulation. "Someone took a lot of care when they built you, didn't they?" he remarks softly, glancing up at the patient's face slowly emerging through the death mask. It occurs to him he doesn't just means the augs. That face looks like it's been chiselled by a Renaissance sculptor, strangely suited to the deathly pallor that had taken it as though cut from marble.

A thrill of anticipation runs through the doctor. "Alright, that's him wired up," he says. "Just need to check the connections. We're ready for a reboot. Get a shot of adrenaline to this port and mount an external charge unit on the heart. We'll jumpstart him."

"You want us to add a sedative too?" the tech offers. "It's unlikely he'll wake up, but situations like this, it can be unpredictable…"

"No." Orlov's refusal is abrupt. His gaze drift to the patient's eyelids as he imagines for a fleeting moment how they'd look opening of their own accord. The shifting shadows cast by dark lashes, the gold-green glow as retinal implants finally make contact with the brain…

"Restart his heart, get the magnet locks on his limbs but let his systems reboot on their own," Orlov says. "I want to see what happens."

Wires and tubes and cables run in and out of Patient X's chest like roots sprouting from a seed. They plug into blood vessels, into airways, into circuits and conductors and probes mounted on PEDOT clusters gathering data while the electrodes of an external battery run directly to the heart.

The resurrection is unremarkable. Two attempts, no more. The first shock fails, an error message reporting compromised calcium channels, followed by an attempt to manually calibrate the myomer, and then they go again. A green LED on a sensor declares success, and drawing on the energy of the external battery, the heart begins to beat.

Only partially satisfied, Orlov watches Jensen's face. It will take some time to build up to transferring him off of life support, biocells depleted, many of his organs in dire need of the Sentinel's attention, yet the doctor has to admit that part of him was hoping for more.

He's about to look away, decide on his next course of action with the augs lined up for installation, and then he sees it. A slight twitch of the facial muscles, a quiver of the lips, and then the eyelids flutter.

"Shit," Orlov hears the tech mutter under his breath. "Administering anaesthetic…" He's reaching quickly for an IV port, but Orlov halts him with a raised nitrile-clad and blood-coated hand.

"Wait. This is the first stimulation his brain has had in weeks. He needs to calibrate; to adapt. Let's not snuff it out."

Whether obedient or simply caught by surprise, the entire team pauses. Orlov watches a moment longer, plastic eyeballs revealed through the cracks, darting about in what might be panic, or more likely random nerve impulses from an abruptly revived brain. There's no pain on Jensen's face. Though, rather than true absence, it could just be the discordant firing of his neurons.

Orlov tugs off a glove, rests his palm on the warming skin of a still-pale cheek, and watches the gradually-stabilising eyes. "Welcome back," he says, with no real expectation the words will be understood, his face unlikely to be recognised or remembered. When those green eyes narrow, their shuddering gaze steadying to meet his with unnerving focus, Orlov is taken by surprise.

"...Sir?"

In the back of his mind, the tech's voice registers. It sounds nervous.

"There's a lot of resistance showing in the magnet locks…"

Magnetic restraints, designed to hold metal-cored augs.

Orlov looks away. "Then increase the field strength. You got his limbs secure?" He slips a hand back into the chest cavity, nudging aside organs to check the integrity of the circuit board. A small red indicator light confirms it's online.

"He's secure."

"Then open up his forearms and prep the nanoceramic. Let's get started."


	2. Recovery: Day One

The light burns. Pure white. The colour of foaming seas and cracking ice, of operating theatres and clinical hallways all of which have laid claim to a piece of his soul.

He remembers the cold. The scream of torquing, tortured metal rising to drown out the cries of the mad and the dying. Ice in his chest. Adam tries to scream once more and chokes on the silence.

The weight remains. Of water in his lungs. Of concrete creaking, collapsing above, around him.

Of his failure.

Steel blades beneath his skin, and the pain grows.

_I did this._

A shadow unfurls across the white. Shifting shades of guilt darken and solidify into hard, cruel eyes. Possessive. Judging. Augs strain against a phantom force as a gentle touch comes to rest on his cheek.

_Is this Hell?_

The thought forms, then fades as lucidity flees soon after. Adam recoils from the agony and retreats into the uneasy peace of the dark.

—

_**Facility 451**_

_**Alaska**_

_**10 months later**_

Day one of consciousness passes until it comes back around to tiredness again. Jensen had left the bed, wandered around the hospital room a bit until until an irritated Dr Rafiq had come to chastise him for disconnecting the monitors, and then was told he had to stay off his feet until they were satisfied with the progress of his recovery.

So, back to the bed it was, boredom and unease tumbling over and over each other in his mind yet failing to stir any further flashes of memory. As the monotonous hours drag on his body grows weary, its first circuit of a circadian rhythm in months, yet despite the weight tugging at his eyelids Jensen is hesitant to let it win. He's done enough sleeping.

The glare of artificial lights remains harsh and white on his protesting retinas, and Jensen wonders if beyond the confines of the facility night has even fallen. Despite it all, when the locked door to the recovery room next slides open, Jensen jerks to with a start and realises he'd been dozing.

Never properly switched off, his retinal display flickers rapidly out of standby and comes to focus on the figure stood at the foot of the bed. He recognises Dr McFadden's face, still pale and tired, while his white shirt seems crumpled and day-old beneath the labcoat. The doctor's loosened blue tie matches the colour of the stethoscope around his neck.

"Did I disturb you?" McFadden says, though the apology in his tone doesn't quite feel sincere.

Jensen grunts. "No. Don't want to be sleeping, anyway."

"Fatigue at this stage is normal. It will take time for your body to adjust to normal cycles again." McFadden takes a step closer, and Jensen registers the blue clipboard grasped in the doctor's hands. "Dr Rafiq tells me you left the bed earlier?"

"Not exactly much to do in it."

"No, you're right. The entertainment here is quite lacking. I'll see if there's anything I can do about bringing an ebook or two, but for now, you should be resting."

"You keep the door locked, I don't exactly have much choice."

The doctor gives him a thin smile. "If you aren't too tired, I'd like to give you a quick checkup. See how things are progressing now that you've been awake twelve hours."

"Twelve hours? That all it's been?"

"You woke up at 10:34 this morning. It's now 10:42 at night."

_10:42. _Jensen makes a mental note of it. The clock on his HUD has been telling him it can't find a radio signal to calibrate the date and time properly.

"Alright, why not?" Jensen grunts, sitting up straighter in the bed. "Be the most interesting thing that's happened to me all day."

He watches as McFadden takes one of the plastic chairs he'd been using earlier and pulls it closer, gesturing for Jensen to swing his legs over the side of the mattress. Adam complies, eyes following the doctor's hands closely as he reaches for the penlight in the breast pocket of his labcoat.

"Have you remembered anything else?" McFadden asks, clicking it on.

"No." Even if he had, it wouldn't change Adam's answer.

"Alright. I'm just going to run a few basic tests—I need to check the connections in your optic implants for blind spots."

"Go right ahead."

McFadden moves the penlight across Jensen's field of vision a few times, getting him to indicate whenever the light passes out of sight.

"Alright, good. Everything seems to be in order there."

The penlight slips back into the pocket and then, abruptly, long, narrow fingers reach up towards Jensen's throat.

On instinct, Adam flinches. His muscles tense, not trusting hands so close to his neck, yet the movement goes either unnoticed or ignored as McFadden's touch comes to rest on his carotid. "I must admit, you gave us quite a challenge when it came to monitoring blood pressure and O2 sats," the doctor remarks. "The lack of natural extremities made things quite tricky."

"Try living with it," Jensen grumbles, but doesn't pull away further as he lets the doctor feel his pulse. The fingertips are warm. Not unpleasant, though there's still a niggling instinct somewhere in the back of his mind telling him to be wary.

"I'm sure it took a lot of adjusting," McFadden says diplomatically. "Fortunately, we were able to adapt, just as you did. Chin up."

Those fingertips move to tilt his jaw, and then Adam is straining his eyes to look down as McFadden takes out a handheld scanner to hold against his neck. The pressure of it is uncomfortable, but he holds still and lets the doctor take the reading, swallowing thickly when it's finally removed and McFadden scratches something down on his clipboard.

"You noticed any problems with aug responsiveness since waking up?"

"You mean apart from over half of them being offline?" Adam holds up his wrist, thrusts the suppressor bracelet in McFadden's face.

"Ah, yes. I understand it's frustrating, but we have to reintroduce use of your augs gradually. Your limb prostheses still have basic function?"

"Seems so."

He doesn't elaborate, watching the doctor scrawl something else down that Jensen isn't at the right angle to read.

"Alright, lie down again," comes the next order. "I'll examine your heart."

There's still a voice in his head telling him to be wary, but Jensen finds no reason not to comply as he lies back and lets McFadden pass the stethoscope over his chest. Then the touch of cold steel turns to warm hands running over his ribs, and for some reason, that's when he shivers.

"Just breathe normally," McFadden murmurs, noticing the way Jensen's body tenses as his hands slide lower, past Adam's diaphragm, pressing into the soft flesh of his abdomen. Fingers grasp at the jut of metal mounted on hip bones as thumbs slide into the groove formed by an iliac crest, then hook below the band of blue scrub pants and try to roam further.

Adam's reaction comes in an instant. Black hands fly up, grasping at the doctor's wrists as he finds himself suddenly aware of how his heart's begun to pound. Were it not for the suppressor, the strength of his grip would be enough to snap McFadden's bones.

Perfectly calm, the doctor stares down at him, reading the panicked question in Jensen's eyes. "You don't have many natural pulse points left. Your femoral artery is one of them," McFadden says. "That's all I'm checking."

"You want to take my pulse, you don't need to do it there."

"I understand you're nervous, but I need to be thorough. Who do you think changed your catheter while you were in a coma?"

"I sincerely hope not you."

Narrow lips twitch in amusement. "Then I'll neither confirm nor deny it."

He waits, patient and unconcerned as Adam's grip grudgingly slackens and he lets warm fingertips slide into the crease between leg and groin, a narrow strip of skin remaining before flesh turns to aug. McFadden's touch lingers a few heartbeats, feeling the heat of Adam's body bleeding into his fingers as the artery flutters beneath thin skin. Then he pulls his hands free and tugs the waistband an inch higher again.

"Seems perfectly healthy," the doctor says, eyes never having wandered from Jensen's accusatory glare. "Roll over."

"Why?"

"I want to examine your spine."

It takes a moment, but then Adam grinds his teeth and does as he's asked. No longer having his chest exposed eases the tension for the briefest of moments, but turning his back provokes a whole other kind of anxiety as McFadden's hands begin to roam again in a way he can't watch.

They start at his neck, touch hot and firm on his cervical vertebrae before gliding lower across the metal ridges that jut through his skin. A palm flattens between Adam's shoulder blades, pressing insistently.

"One of your augs is mounted here, isn't it?" McFadden says. The former detached professionalism in his voice seems to have given way to intrigue. "Icarus Landing System."

Another hand comes to rest on Adam's skull, inching through his hair as fingers seek out the hidden bumps of access ports. Jensen shivers. "How did you know it was called that?"

"I've studied David Sarif's work."

"How did you know it was Sarif?"

No answer. The hand on his back wanders lower, the pressure almost pleasant were it not for the words that set his nerves on edge.

"Matches your limbs," McFadden says at length. "Your eyes." A pause. "Your heart."

A lead weight settles in the pit of Adam's stomach. _They opened me up, then._

Exploratory fingertips once again hover at the waistband of his scrub pants, and Adam suppresses a shudder. Gritting his teeth, he breaks the connection forcibly by rolling onto his back. "I'm tired," Jensen says, keeping his tone measured as he forces himself to meet McFadden's gaze. "I'd like to go to bed now."

The doctor's lips quirk. "Would you?" Weight shifts on the mattress, and as a hand presses once more to his chest, Adam realises McFadden has a knee resting on the bed. The hand presses down, fingers splaying, keeping him pinned.

It takes all of his willpower, but Jensen doesn't react. His next sentence is calm, but assertive. "Could you turn out the light?"

The doctor doesn't move. Adam's heart thumps against the hand on his sternum, its pace a dead giveaway, yet his gaze doesn't falter. Then McFadden straightens up.

"Get some rest, Jensen," he says stiffly, smoothing his collar. "I'll check on you again tomorrow."


	3. Night

_**Then** _

Black augs make a beautiful contrast against pale skin. Still so pale, even with warm blood rushing through the veins beneath, the pallor belongs to a man who's seen more darkness than daylight. Ghost-like, Orlov contemplates. Or, perhaps more accurately, vampiric—a man who has died once and been brought back stronger than before.

Not once. Twice. Orlov likes to think he alone can take credit for the second time.

(Not a vampire, then. Does that make Orlov Frankenstein?)

Spidery blue veins show through the translucent veil of Adam Jensen's flesh, and the doctor half wonders if they might be wires instead. They're not. He's already dug around in Jensen's chest, mapped out the circuitry in his mind, yet the illusion is a vivid one as Orlov reaches out to run a delicate finger over a tangle of blue lines showing just below Jensen's collarbone. In his throat, a pulse thumps steadily, the carotid swelling and subsiding in gentle rhythm beneath the skin.

Yes, it's beautiful. Despite the ugly line of staples sealing the incision running down the centre of Jensen's chest, mirroring the one along his spine, it seems a shame to obscure his sculpted body with some cheap paper hospital gown.

But the first round of surgery is over, and it seems that that's the done thing.

Orlov pulls off his gloves, discards them along with his apron and mask as he hands over to the techs and medical staff that are fitting his patient with monitoring devices and shifting him to a gurney to move to an observation room.

"Give it two weeks, and we'll wake him up for testing," Orlov instructs, and is met with a look of concern.

"Does the Sentinel work that fast? Even if we enhance the protein therapy it still has two major incisions to repair."

"I said two weeks," Orlov snaps, "I have a testing schedule for these new augs. I want him under round-the-clock observation. Get it done."

* * *

_**Now**_

Orlov had turned out the lights, as Jensen requested. He politely leaves them switched off when he returns to his patient's room a couple of hours later, propping the door open a crack so that the only light comes from the hallway where a sentry drone is hovering watchfully above the door.

Jensen is asleep. They've taken him off the larger monitors with the nuisance wires stuck to sensors on his chest, yet the band around his wrist reliably tells Orlov he's in deep sleep. It hadn't been a complete lie that the bracelet is for monitoring purposes—while its primary function is to inhibit the use of Jensen's non-essential augs, the data from his essential ones feeds a near-constant stream to Orlov's pocket secretary. Jensen's optic implants ended a period of REM sleep some twenty minutes ago. Orlov wonders what he dreamed.

Taking care not to make a sound, the doctor resumes his position in the chair he'd pulled over to the bed earlier and studies what he can of Jensen's features in the dark. He looks peaceful. It might be easy to think he's slipped back into a coma again were it not for the fact Jensen has chosen to lie on his side, hand loosely balled into the sheets where he has them pulled up to his chest.

Orlov feels a prickle of annoyance.

"You always were more cooperative like this, you know that?" he mutters softly, reaching out to tug the hem of the blanket away from black-and-gold fingers and see if he can glimpse more of that pale skin. "Never failed to put up a fight whenever we woke you. I see that hasn't changed."

The doctor isn't quite sure what he's looking for. He's already studied the skin of Jensen's chest and back extensively and all signs of the augmentation procedures had faded months ago, yet with Jensen released from the coma, the concerning thought that he might nonetheless notice the change in his body has occurred to Orlov.

(Concerning why? If Jensen does recall anything, another round of memory therapy will deal with it.)

Perhaps the honest truth is that Orlov simply wants to look.

For several minutes, the doctor sits in the chair and listens to the quiet sound of Jensen's breathing while he studies the play of light and shadow across his augs. Glossy plastic glints in the faint illumination from the hallway before transitioning to textured polymer, a mimicry of human muscle blending into the contours of Jensen's back and chest. His skin is matte and smooth, and still has barely regained any colour since the first time Orlov laid eyes on it. In Alaska, that's unlikely to change.

"David Sarif really carved his masterwork out of you, didn't he?" the doctor murmurs. "I could almost forgive him for rejecting me, when he's given me this. I wonder what he'd think if he knew what I'd done to it."

Jensen, of course, doesn't respond.

Orlov contemplates that thought a little more, and finds himself smiling. Just as silently as before, he rises from his chair. "Hope you're sleeping well, Adam," he says, reaching out to ever-so-gently smooth back the hair from the hexagon stamped into Adam's forehead. "You're going to need it."


	4. Recovery: Day Two

**A/N: Just a warning for Orlov being extremely inappropriate and creepy. If that's anything new.**

It's naïve to hope Dr Rafiq will take over monitoring duties for the following day, but when she'd been the only one accompanying the automated robot bringing his breakfast, Jensen can't pretend he hadn't hoped nonetheless. As it is, McFadden shows up not long after lunch, just as another robot is rolling into the room to collect his tray.

"Jensen, how are you feeling?"

The doctor has brought with him an ereader atop his clipboard of notes. From the side of the bed, Jensen eyes him suspiciously.

"Like I'm not going to see a good meal while I'm here."

"Food not to your liking?"

"Didn't exactly have high expectations of prison food anyway."

A crease forms between McFadden's eyebrows. "You aren't a prisoner here, Jensen."

"Then why do you keep the door locked?"

McFadden ignores that. "How are you feeling? You seemed quite distressed last night."

"Did I?"

That comment goes ignored too. "Have any more memories returned? A dream, perhaps?"

"Nothing."

The doctor takes a step towards the bed and Adam tenses, face hardening into a glare, but McFadden does nothing more than set the ebook down on the mattress beside him. "Well, keeping the brain stimulated will help your recovery, maybe prompt a few things to come back. Decent library on that, if you still find yourself at a loss for entertainment. "

Jensen barely affords it a glance. "I prefer paper."

"Suit yourself." The doctor shrugs, though the deepening scowl on his face belies his irritation. "If you're not in a hurry to start a book, I never got to complete last night's tests. I need to take a closer look at your augs."

Adam feels his pulse picking up. Even though they've finally agreed to detach him from the monitors, he still doesn't much like the uneasy feeling that the doctor somehow _knows._

"Don't see much point, if you won't let me activate any of them."

"Please, Adam, don't fight me on this. I'm trying to help you."

At the use of his first name, Jensen bristles. While he knows all the psychological tricks—establish a false sense of intimacy to sway the subject into compliance—something in McFadden's tone feels...familiar. Like this isn't the first time his name has been on the doctor's lips, and nor is it out of place there.

"How long do you plan to keep this up for? Ever since I woke up, all you've done is treat me like some...lab experiment. You won't even let me leave the room."

McFadden's lips twitch. It seems like he's going for a fake smile of reassurance, then thinks better of it. "How about this, Jensen," he says, tone blunt and straightforward. "You let me complete my exam, and tomorrow, I'll let you out into the rest of the facility. You can get to know some of the other...processees." It seems to Adam he caught himself before saying _inmates. _"How does that sound?"

Adam grits his teeth. "Would that satisfy you?"

"Perhaps."

"What is it you even want from me?"

There's the soft rustle of the thick cotton of a labcoat sleeve as McFadden lifts a hand and places it on Adam's shoulder. It comes to rest on polymer, mostly, until a subtle sideways shift brings the edge of a warm finger into contact with bare skin. Beneath it, organic muscles tense.

"I just want you to make a full recovery," the doctor says, voice soft, a faint huskiness creeping in that tugs the vowels into the hint of an accent Adam can't quite place.

His knuckles aren't able to whiten, but Adam's fists clench anyway. _Bullshit, _he thinks, but nonetheless considers. The sooner they let him out out of the room, at least, the better. Fighting his way isn't really an option until the suppressor comes off. "Fine. Do what you need to." The words come out clipped.

Pleased, the hand pats his shoulder once, and then to Adam's even greater unease, he feels the fingers settle on his jaw. McFadden tilts his head towards him and lifts his chin. "Are you _sure _you remember nothing?"

The hand hasn't quite stopped exploring. Fingertips roam up to brush his cheekbone while a thumb hooks the corner of his mouth, pressing gently against his bottom lip. Head tilted up, Adam can't miss the look in McFadden's eyes.

His face flushes. Stomach turning, Adam tries to think above the thumping of blood in his ears. "Is there something you're expecting me to remember?"

"Perhaps it will come back to you." The words are cold and ominous, and then the touch is gone. For its absence, the next sentence is no less forceful. "Lie down on the bed."

It takes him a moment, and then, slowly, Adam complies.

He doesn't look as McFadden commences the exam, finding it more bearable to stare up at the ceiling and search futilely for any kind of interesting features in the expanse of blank white, but he feels the fingers that return to explore his bare chest. They skim his collarbone, press on ports and rivets before moving to trace scars and metal structures through his skin, and then there comes a firm, uncomfortable pressure on the centre of his sternum.

"You have a mechanical rebreather implanted under here." It isn't said as a question.

Adam swallows thickly. "Get a good look at it while you were rummaging around inside?"

He's still trying not to look at McFadden's face, but he hears the disapproval in his response. "You say that as if we wronged you. How do you think you're alive?"

"You said I was dead when they found me. As the doctor, I'd hoped you could tell me." The thought hasn't been far from Adam's mind since the moment he awoke. Daring himself, he lets his eyes drift down to McFadden's face, and is taken aback when he sees a look that might be actual hurt.

"I _will _tell you, Adam," the doctor says quietly. "You're right, you were clinically deceased when they pulled you from the ocean. Your heart had stopped, lungs full of water, brain almost completely shut down. Resuscitation was near a lost cause to start with, and with all this in the way we could hardly attempt CPR from the outside." He raps his knuckles on the bar of surgical steel crossing Adam's ribs. "Yes, we opened you up. I worked on you myself—did what I had to to bring you back. Don't be ungrateful for that."

A warm hand has come to rest over his heart again. The palm is flattened, protective like a shield, yet the tips of the fingers press firmly in the beginnings of a possessive curl. Despite the heat of it, Adam feels cold.

The other hand has found its way to his shoulder. It begins to trail down his arm, following the contours of myomer mimicking natural muscle until it reaches the elbow, and stops. "The craftsmanship on these really is extraordinary," McFadden continues, either oblivious or ignorant to Adam's discomfort. "I'm glad we were able to salvage most of them." The admiration in his voice is evident. That, and a note of...something else.

"Most of them?"

"Your eye shield implants. Frames had cracked under some kind of impact. I replaced them with a newer model. If you don't mind me saying, it's something of an aesthetic upgrade."

Adam frowns, and with the arm not currently under inspection, reaches up to touch the plastic mounted on his temples. He'd expected it to be there, there was no doubting that, but as his carbonate fingertips trace the shape, he doesn't know if he can discern what's changed. "I...don't remember."

"Your brain is still rewiring following a coma. That doesn't surprise me."

"Not like I can turn them on, anyway."

The accusation in his tone gets no reaction. McFadden takes another tool from his breast pocket and hooks the flat blade under a groove in Adam's arm, and Adam fights the urge to flinch as the doctor attempts to manually pry open a panel. The sensation is unpleasant—PEDOT interface struggling to parse the signals when there's no input from his brain telling them to activate.

"For everyone's safety, I certainly think it's best you don't turn these on." McFadden frowns as he studies the sheath for the nanoblade ceramic. "All live ammunition has been removed from your typhoon ports too. You'll understand why we don't want you using these in a hospital, but I can check that the connections are still live."

"What does that involve?"

The tool hits a connector inside the limb, and Adam feels a sudden pins-and-needles sensation that makes him grimace.

McFadden looks on impassively. "That."

He finishes up examining the arm, closing the panels and letting it fall to Adam's side, though Adam immediately pulls it anxiously to his chest and watches as he flexes his own fingers. Wary gold-green eyes track McFadden's movements as he switches to the opposite aug and opens up the corresponding panel.

"You do this while I was asleep too?" Adam asks gruffly.

"Regularly." Macfadden's answer is curt. Whatever he's checking for in the inner mechanisms of Adam's arm, he seems satisfied as he taps at a few connectors and nods sharply before closing him up. "Turn your wrist through 360 for me?"

It's not a movement Adam had thought to test out yet, but he does as he's asked without trouble before repeating the motion with the opposite hand.

Macfadden seems to approve. "Good," he mutters as he picks up his clipboard to scrawl something briefly. "No loss of basic function there. I'll need to get you to remove your pants for this next part."

Adam suspected this was coming. The prospect might even bearable were it not for that well-obscured yet unmistakably predatory look in the doctor's eyes. "Is that really necessary?"

"90% of your body below the waist is augmented. I can hardly perform a thorough exam through your clothes."

Again, his accent on the word 'thorough' is strange, though the thought quickly flees Adam's mind. "Should have thought of that before you decided not to give me proper underwear."

Macfadden sets his clipboard aside, then folds his arms over his chest as he stares down at Adam with an infuriatingly judgmental look. "From everything I read about you while you were in the coma, I never imagined you'd be this shy in person. Though, granted, there were times I also thought you wouldn't wake up at all."

Adam grinds his teeth. "I prefer 'cautious'."

"Whatever you call it, you act as though I haven't seen it all before. I'm your doctor, Jensen. I'm doing this for your benefit."

He's saying all the right words, yet there's still something behind his eyes that Adam doesn't quite trust. "You're only interested in the augs?"

"I'm _interested _in all aspects of your health and factors that may affect it. Though, yes, at this current time, my primary concern is with the function of your augs."

_It really isn't like he hasn't seen me naked before, _Adam concedes. Small sacrifice to make to bring him closer to freedom. At least this time, he supposes, he can be awake for it.

"_Fine." _Jensen huffs an irritable grunt as he reaches for the drawstring of his scrub pants and loosens it until he can shuffle the garment down over his hips, exposing the flimsy pair of white briefs that leave little to the imagination. Macfadden watches, mostly impassive, until out of the corner of his eye, Adam thinks he sees the doctor lick his lips.

Inwardly, he balks. _He didn't just…?_

—_No. _No point dwelling on it. Too late to back out if this is how he'll get what he wants.

"That work for you?" Jensen grinds out, kicking the pants from his ankles and lying back flat on the bed so Macfadden can get a better look.

"That's _fine_," the doctor says calmly, standing to Jensen's right and panning his gaze from thigh to toes. "Bend your knee. I need to check the myomer hasn't degraded."

Cheeks burning under his scrutiny, Adam lifts his right leg and feels Macfadden's hands begin to probe the tensing bands of artificial muscle. "Pretty sure Sarif built them better than that."

"And I'm pretty sure he didn't test them for Arctic temperatures." It's hard to tell if the comment genuinely irritated him or he's just trying to make banter.

The continued exam is mostly bareable as Macfadden manoeuvres the limb, turns Adam's ankle, inspects pistons and motors in his calf with a touch that begins as clinical and slides uncomfortably towards admiring as it creeps up past his knee. Almost all the flesh has gone now, muscle replaced with polymer over a metal skeleton anchored as high as the hip, yet there's a small part that Adam is undeniably grateful Sarif hadn't touched. There can't be more than four square inches of skin remaining on his inner thighs, and yet nonetheless Macfadden's fingertips find it.

"Delicate work on Sarif's part, to be able to leave this intact," the doctor mutters, hand squeezing, sliding higher…

_Enough._

Adam's jaw clenches with the same sudden ferocity that his hand closes around Macfadden's wrist. He tugs at it sharply, causing the other man to fall towards him with a yelp as his other hand flies up to grasp Macfadden's throat.

"Don't think just because you've got me leashed I won't fight back," Jensen snarls, teeth bared, drinking in the look of fear in Macfadden's eyes. His pupils are blown wide, surrounded by a ring of brown and, beyond that, unusually bloodshot white revealed as he stares at Adam in shock.

Then in an instant, it's gone.

Pain sparks sharp and sudden in Jensen's side. The burn begins low down in the soft flesh of his abdomen and swells rapidly to fill his chest, making natural muscles spasm while it stabs like needles at the junctures of his augs. A cry of pain slips past his lips as he abruptly lets go, curling in on himself, eyes landing on the taser gripped in the doctor's hand.

A second, less intense shock wracks through him, serving as both warning and retribution before Macfadden tugs the prongs loose and leaves him to catch his breath.

"I'll admit, I did half expect some resistance," Macfadden grunts, regaining his composure as he stands up straight and smooths his labcoat. "Though, it still saddens me I had to use this. You're still adjusting; waking up has been a big shock to to your system. I can make allowances. But I'd advise you not to try that again."

Adam heaves a breath through gritted teeth, directing a venomous glare towards the man standing over him in lieu of words. Macfadden frowns back, disapproving, and then his face softens into something that disconcertingly resembles concern.

"I think we should leave it there today, don't you?" The doctor reaches up to push back a few strands of Adam's unruly hair from his face. "You can go out into the rest of the facility tomorrow; hopefully it will help you settle. I'll have the orderlies bring you some proper clothes. Please don't try to attack them. I guarantee they won't be as restrained as I am."

The touch lingers as he continues to stare down at Adam a moment longer, and then suddenly he's gone, striding for the door as he leaves Adam to collect what remains of his dignity in a heap on the bed.


	5. Day Five

**A/N: This chapter takes place concurrently with early events of Black Light. The same warnings apply.**

Orlov _hovers. _Even when Adam is allowed out into the rest of the facility, for the most part left to his own devices, he can feel the doctor's eyes constantly watching him like a raptor tracking its prey. He escapes another _intrusive _exam for a few days, Dr Rafiq taking over the duty of monitoring his progress, and Adam is left to wonder if she's as truly oblivious to McFadden's agenda as she appears or simply choosing to turn a blind eye.

That's soon relegated to the second most pressing of his problems with the visit of the woman from Homeland Security.

McFadden is waiting when Jenna Thorne releases him from the interrogation room, standing at the top of the stairs to the facility's common area with his hands folded across his chest and a scowl on his face. "_Jensen._" His voice is a bark. "You're late for your appointment."

"Got held up," Adam growls in return. "Rafiq missing me?"

"Dr Rafiq is busy. I'll see you in my office."

Adam's instinctive reaction of _like Hell you will _is quickly subdued as he glances at the armed orderlies escorting him back from the basement. If McFadden's taser hadn't been cause for concern enough, the stun batons at their sides send another jolt of anxiety to turn his stomach.

"Alright. Let's make this quick."

Seeing he's compliant, the orderlies leave him be as Adam follows McFadden's lead to the doctor's office and waits for him to pass a keycard over the lock. The mechanism gives a _beep _and a light on the reader turns green, doorway sliding open so that McFadden takes a step to the side and gestures for Adam to go first.

Grinding his teeth, Adam accepts the invitation and enters.

"What did she want with you?" To Adam's surprise, it's the first question McFadden asks as the door secures itself again behind them. He raises an eyebrow, averting his gaze from the exam table at the far side of the room to focus again on the doctor.

"Same thing you keep asking me: what happened the day of the Incident?"

"And what did you tell her?"

"That I can't recall."

Frowning, McFadden scrutinises him by eye a moment longer, and then steps closer. "Unprofessional of her, to interrogate you without informing me." He abruptly reaches up, hand cupping Adam's face, and Adam jerks roughly away.

"You're sure you should be talking about _professional?_"

McFadden glares. He stretches out his hand once more and then lets it fall defeatedly to his side. "I expect such an ordeal was stressful. The whole purpose of you being here is that I can check you over."

"And what if I say no? You going to tase me again?"

A muscle twitches in the doctor's cheek. "Only if you acted in such a way as to make it necessary. I'm _not _your enemy, despite what you seem to believe."

_You have a funny way of showing it. _"Prove it," Adam challenges. "Don't touch me. Just let me walk out of here."

"I can't do that, Adam."

Even back in the interrogation room, magnet literally pinning his arm to the table, Adam hadn't felt this trapped. "What do you want from me?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

Adam hears his pulse pounding in his ears. Unlike in the interrogation room, he reminds himself, he _isn't _literally strapped in place. "_Fuck this._" With a savage snarl he begins to stride towards the door, honing in on the only way _out _being the same way he came.

"Adam, wait—" McFadden moves quickly, trying to block his path with a palm flattened across his chest, but even without his reflex booster Adam is faster still.

He grasps the doctor's wrist, followed immediately by the other to keep McFadden from reaching for a weapon, and then shoves hard. With a _thud, _McFadden's back collides with the wall. His head snaps back, air leaving his lungs in a sharp grunt as Adam pins his wrists above his head. "I told you," Adam growls. "Don't think I won't fight back."

Dazed, McFadden gives a shake of his head. "I'm beginning to think I preferred you unconscious. You were so much more compliant."

It takes a moment, but something in the way he says it makes Adam's insides turn cold. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

McFadden doesn't answer. He stares back at Adam, expression blank, and then his lips begin to curl in a smirk.

The wave of nausea Adam had just been keeping at bay begins to crest. With a jolt, he realises he's shaking.

Without uttering another word, he abruptly lets go, doing his best to block out the doctor's presence as he turns to the door and fumbles to hit the release. His legs are trembling as he makes it back out into the hallway, staggering in the direction of the nearest bathroom as McFadden's final threat reaches his ears.

"_We'll finish this later, Adam._"

* * *

"Absolutely not." Orlov barely has to glance at the pocket secretary Thorne hands him before rejecting its contents outright. "I will not administer a dose of sodium pentothal to Adam Jensen for the purposes of interrogation, nor will I authorise the use of such." He thrusts the digital orders back at her with a look of disgust. "He shouldn't even have been interrogated at all in his current state. It would have at least been courteous for you to inform me."

"Spare me the faux indignance, Dr McFadden. Your colleague signed off on it before we even came to collect him." Jenna Thorne spits back at him with equal contempt. "Dr Rafiq believes there is no reason at all Adam Jensen should be considered unfit for interrogation."

"And while Dr Rafiq is an excellent neurologist, she is not an aug specialist. As Mr Jensen's primary physician, I should have been consulted."

"Well, I'm consulting you now. You can monitor him during our next session, if that would satisfy you, but I expect you to administer this drug."

"Out of the question."

"He's being uncooperative; obstructing an investigation that concerns matters of national security. The drug in question has no known lasting side effects—"

"I'm well aware of the uses and consequences of sodium pentothal," Orlov snaps. "In fact, I studied its uses in the Soviet Union quite extensively during grad school. And the answer is still no."

Thorne's upper lip twitches in a nasty sneer. "I was asking out of courtesy, Dr McFadden. I'm afraid, on this matter, I'll have to overrule you."

"And as you are quite aware, Agent,since this matter is one of healthcare, _you can't._" Taking out a pocket secretary of his own, Orlov swipes through a few screens and then thrusts it towards her. "Readings from his monitor bracelet not long after you finished your last 'session' with him. Undue strain on his nervous and cardiovascular systems, with the possibility of accelerating the growth of glial tissue at an exponential rate. I found him throwing up in the bathroom not long after you were done." Orlov gives her a cutting smile. "I know who you answer to, Agent, and they wouldn't approve of my doing anything so reckless as to compromise Mr Jensen's recovery. In this clinic, I have the final say on matters of patient wellbeing. Until you come back to me with signed orders from a higher authority, you're not touching Adam Jensen again."

* * *

_Later _proves to be just about bearable, if only for Dr Rafiq's presence in the room keeping the worst of McFadden's proclivities at bay. She does nothing more than observe, but for once McFadden's manner is detached and professional as he inspects Adam's augs and takes a perfunctory reading of his vitals, before the pair of them go to exchange quiet words in the hall.

Adam gets through it by focusing on his breathing and refusing to let any discomfort show on his face, and then lies alone in the quiet as he gradually feels himself returning to his body again.

Upon waking up a few days ago, his situation had already seemed bad. Now it's only gotten worse.

Thorne wants him to confess to having caused the Incident—a confession that would be a lie. McFadden wants something else from him entirely—something Adam has no intention to give. Both those things together constitute a problem, and at present, Adam can't decide which threat he should fear most.

Having made what he supposes is the closest he'll get to a friend in this place, the next morning in the yard, Adam tentatively broaches half of the subject with Stacks. "So, the doctors in this place. What do you make of them?"

With a metallic grinding of his steel shoulders, the other man shrugs. "Not much. We're the augs but they act like robots. Check you over like they're servicing a machine and then sign off on your neuropozyne prescription. Guess I shouldn't complain; we wouldn't be getting a regular free supply of it anywhere else."

Adam hums thoughtfully and glances back over his shoulder, half expecting to see a figure in a labcoat watching them from somewhere across the quad. "And McFadden? You never had a problem with him?"

"Problem?" Stacks frowns. "Not since he got here. He's cold, but professional. Give me the choice and I'd take Rafiq, but he gets the job done. Why? He been giving you trouble?"

Adam chews the inside of his cheek and decides to downplay it. "I get the impression he was hoping I wouldn't wake up."

"Haven't you heard, brother? We're dangerous unhinged augs. Would make all the naturals' lives easier if we stayed dead."

Adam makes a noncommittal grunt and wishes that really was all he had to be afraid of.


End file.
